Daily Archives: February 11, 2017

A Few Things

In memory
are a few things
worth preserving:

deep sunshine taste
of a particular Key West mango;

scent of eucalyptus trees
through the windows
of a hotel

in Rancho Santa Fe;

one sharp pang of disappointment
at gray night skies

on the hills above Albuquerque
on the night of
the Perseid shower;

voices of friends, lovers, and
random phrases
overheard from strangers;

cannon hum
of an old Gibson 

against my chest;

a slip of the tongue
that eventually made
for one magnificent line

in a mediocre bit of poetry;

a song in my head
that I never learned to play

or sing, but which gave me hope
every day I picked
at my strings

or my paper and pen.  

In memory are things
worth preserving,
and none of them
will be found

in my bones 
when I pass;

so on that day
or soon after

when they set me
on fire

may my ashes
signal no sadness
at the release of 
my spirit
from my matter

but instead
flag its flight
as it is dragged
and lifted 
on the kindness
of wind;

let it settle
wherever it wants,
in one or in many,
in new life
or aged lungs, 
upon stone 
or soft ground;

let it be true
that I didn’t matter
in life as much 
as I do in what
I carried within,
what little 

I leave behind:

song, flavor, 
sense, breath.


Country Of Sick Men

Originally posted 8/28/2013.

The men of that country are sick.

We don’t know why they are sick
or how long they’ve been sick.

Call it a country of sick men
erupting everywhere
there’s a crack to spurt from,
burning their surroundings
when they open their mouths.

The sick men appear mostly mindless 
from their sickness. How else to explain

comb-overs,
wars,
long nosed cars, 
long reach guns, 
filibusters,
weaponized God,
hangings,
unfortunate colognes,
blood feasts,
the casual seizing of women and children,
of other men,
willed ignorance
of lack of consent, 
leveraged buyouts,
wolf pelts,
blessing of radioactive oceans,
balls of old oil
in the bellies of seals,
blank-eyed drooling over vintage guitars and game balls,
blackout drunks,
hard-engine bikes:

all their exquisite arts of suicide and genocide? 

The men of that country are sick.
I was born there, live there mostly,
certainly will die there.

There are women in that country too.
Some of them are sick 
but mostly, I think,
they are sick of the sick men.
They have stories to tell.

If you want to hear those don’t ask me to tell them.
My tongue’s a man’s tongue and I’ve got a touch 
of the sickness myself.

Get away from me,
go to them, 
and listen.

It will seem 
like a different country.